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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28852524">The False Spring (chapters 1-7)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/southwoodias/pseuds/southwoodias'>southwoodias</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire &amp; Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Fantasy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:33:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,558</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28852524</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/southwoodias/pseuds/southwoodias</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Seventeen years before the events of A Song of Ice and Fire, a bloody conflict saw Robert Baratheon rise as the new King of the Seven Kingdoms. But how did this come to be? What seeds of political intrigue were sewn? What alternative motives were at work? And what really happened with Rhaegar and Lyanna?<br/>A complete recount of events from the defeat of the Kingswood Brotherhood to the Tower of Joy told in classic GRRM style.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ashara Dayne/Ned Stark, Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Rhaegar</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a work in progress and not close to being finished. I will update every 10,000 words or so. </p><p>Quick note on chronology- Not all events are ongoing at the same time. There will be large gaps in time which will be noted with ‘parts’.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Rhaegar</p><p> </p><p>The Iron Throne sat upon a raised iron dais, with trailing steps leading to its high perch. The lengthy garnet Myrish carpet trailed along the middle of the Great Hall, leading to the oak and bronze doors. The hall felt cavernous and the atmosphere was toxic, Rhaegar felt close to suffocating, intoxicated by the underlying thick fog of betrayal and intrigue. Great hearths beneath the marble pillars lit the room and filled it with light, fluffy smoke. Behind the pillars sat the skulls of the late Targaryen dragons. Since he was a child, Rhaegar had known their names and their stories. Aegon the Conqueror’s Balerion the Black Dread, his sisters Meraxes and Vhagar. Some of the lesser ones, Meleys and Arrax, all leading up to his father’s throne. The barbs along the back reached out above the seat, the ribbons of twisted steel and the jagged ends of swords tangled and intertwined. Rhaegar had already taught the names of them to his younger brother Viserys, just as his father Aerys II had taught him. Balerion sat colossal next to the Iron Throne, but as you got closer to the great door, the skulls were merely the size of puppies.<br/>
Rhaegar had never needed a dragon, though, his position was stronger than ever and growing. Since the whispers of his father’s madness grew to speech, and speech to screams, the intrigue amongst the royal court had been growing. King Aerys refused to attend his own son’s wedding, in fear of assassination. He had been forced to retreat to the famous Targaryen citadel on Dragonstone, and care for his new born daughter and his wife.<br/>
Rhaegar was biding his time well, however. Now was the time to return to King’s Landing, on the brink of a grand tourney and a dream of spring. Rhaegar’s velvety silver hair glowed in the sunlight shining through the stained glass of the Great Hall. His pale face made his indigo eyes light up. He donned a black doublet with the red three headed dragon of House Targaryen embroidered onto his chest. He was the future of the Seven Kingdoms, and he looked the part; his father on the other hand was scruffier than he was when Rhaegar had left King’s Landing only a year ago.<br/>

Long, uncut hair of muddy white reached nearly his breasts, and his beard was even longer and tied up at the end into a thin cone. His yellow fingernails had grown out of proportion, and his eyes became corrupt. It was clear the soul of a once peaceful and beautiful prince had grown into that of a mad king. At first, the king had not even noticed his presents, and the only sound in the room was the murmurings of fire and blood on the lips of his mad father. It wasn’t until the Hand of the King Tywin Lannister in his crimson jerkin urged his royal father to notice that he began to speak. Lord Jon Connington and the eunuch Varys watched from the gallery above.<br/>

“Your grace, Prince Rhaegar is in audience.” Tywin Lannister spoke in his deep and gravely tone.<br/>

“My son. My son? Where have you been, boy.” Aerys II voice trailed off at the end of every word, and the confusion on his countenance only grew as he thought.<br/>

“My royal father. I have returned on request of Lord Whent and the upcoming Harrenhal tourney. I have been invited to participate and be the voice of our house on your behalf, due to your current state.” His father had been confined to the walls of the Red Keep since he had been captured at Duskendale. Some spoke of his isolation as the cause of his madness.<br/>

“Ah yes, my spider Varys… he told me of your plans. Why here? Why return to my castle?” your plans. Could his father have discovered the plot of this tourney?<br/>

“I can assure you father that there is no plan. All the great lords and ladies in Westeros will be in Harrenhal and there must be a royal envoy.” Rhaegar spoke softly.<br/>

“I can go. I intend to go. My rats and rabbits have informed me to stay here, in my warren. But I will go, my son.” Rhaegar had a look of disappointment and confusion on his face.<br/>

“I had not expected you to leave the safety of the keep, father. You are welcome, of course but be warned the road to Harrenhal is a treacherous one- “<br/>

“Your royal father needs no more doubt on his conscience. His grace intends to go to the tourney and he shall go to the tourney. He has the protection of the royal host and his Kingsguard.” Lord Tywin interrupted.<br/>

“As you command… your grace. The tourney is coming up shortly, you best get preparations done.” Rhaegar spoke slowly and with a suspicious tone.<br/>
He had not predicted his father may attend. The faction of the court that supported Rhaegar had not wanted him to attend, in order to gain outside support in favour of an abdication or regency. All could tell the health of the king was failing, but few cared enough to state it. Lord Connington and other young lords and members of the royal court had supported Rhaegar in private, but the Small Council had done nothing; ruled themselves as if the king’s health was perfect.<br/>

Rhaegar had arrived to the Red Keep mid-afternoon and by the time the king and his hand had seen the court, the sun was hovering above Blackwater Bay. The spring had seemed to arrive early, before the maesters and nobility of the Seven Kingdoms had expected. The last few weeks had seen warm weather, fertile farmland and longer days. The prince emerged from the Great Hall and turned towards Blackwater Bay, trudging through the churned-up courtyard and below the winding towers of Maegor’s Holdfast and the Tower of the Hand. He noticed Jon Connington approach him, and pull his shoulder to face him. The Griff’s’ beard and hair were fiery red and his pale blue eyes stared at the Dragonknight.<br/>

“My prince, I had meaned to catch you before you addressed the court, but I could not make it. I hope you are well, but I can say I had not expected you to emerge this early into King’s Landing.” Jon was a bold and proud fellow, and spoke in a confident tone.<br/>

“My friend, I would have arrived sooner, but the bay was rough. My poor wife and daughter would not have made it in one piece. Regardless, what is the courts situation. I had received your raven but a few months ago, but never heard from you since.”<br/>

“It has only grown worse since your departure. The king’s band stays closely knitted and lets nobody in. Whereas your supporters are the same. The atmosphere is almost strangling. Your father’s actions have not helped. He has burnt three people in wildfire since you were last here. Lord Tywin is not best pleased either, there is a growing wedge between the two. The court is an untameable kraken.” Lord Jon’s words were worrying, mimicking the atmosphere before the Dance of the Dragons.<br/>

“I had intended for it to be over soon. The tourney was designed to gain support for our cause, but as you heard my royal father intends to show up in full force. I must speak with Oswell, forgive me.” Rhaegar left the conversation prematurely and left Jon in the courtyard, but his matter with the knight of the Kingsguard was all the more urgent now.<br/>

White Sword Tower emerged as Rhaegar grew closer. The home of the Kingsguard was a slender structure, built into the walls overlooking Blackwater Bay. By this point the moon had emerged the other side of King’s Landing, but the torches in the Red Keep lit the way. As the Dragonknight entered, he saw white wool hangings furnish the whitewashed walls, and a hearth with a shield and crossed swords hanging above them. A staircase emerged on the right of the hearth, and Rhaegar followed it to the quarters of Oswell Whent.<br/>

His room was darker than the rest of the tower. It had a silver carpet on the floor, and an oak bedframe covering the silky linings of the bed. The knight of the Kingsguard sat facing his own hearth, with a goblet of Dornish wine in his hand and an armour stand to his left. Oswell wore lengthy brown hair, with matching eyes. His face was cracked and battle hardened.<br/>

“The dragon emerges from the depths of the Seven Hells. His face whitened by the sickly love of his not-so-maiden wife.” Oswell’s jokes were bearable if you spent enough time with the man.<br/>

“I come to the city with matter regarding your brothers’ tourney. Have the funds found him well?” This tourney has cost me half of the wealth in the Seven Kingdoms, Rhaegar thought.<br/>

“Your funds were very generous. I managed to escape the clutches of His Grace for a few weeks, whilst I could sort the arrangements with my brother. The stage is yours, Dragonknight” Oswell raised his goblet to Rhaegar.<br/>

“We have a small matter. King Aerys has announced his intentions to attend the tourney.” The smile of the knight was wiped off his face.<br/>

“All the lords and ladies were gathered in one spot to ensure you could devise your abdication plan and such, just for the king to attend himself!” Oswell’s face grew red with anger.<br/>

“There may be a way to continue my plan, but we must tread carefully. I am sure Varys and his little birds will follow the king to Harrenhal.” Varys was never far from the king of late.<br/>

“Never trust a man with no cock. That’s what my father taught me. Very well, you must still attend otherwise suspicions will be raised. There are other ways of gaining support other than political intrigue… enter into the jousting or the melee. Win the people’s love through a noble and honourable knight than a sly and jealous prince.” Rhaegar pondered his idea. He was one of the grandest knights in the Seven Kingdoms and was sure he would go far in the ranks. However, Arthur Dayne, Barristan Selmy and the likes were sure to enter. The competition was tough, but he was the Dragonknight. The boy born amidst the flames of Summerhall. As he thought, the Prince who was Promised.<br/>

He left White Sword Tower with grace in his step. He ascended up the steps of Maegor’s Holdfast to his quarters. He entered the room to find his daughter Rhaenys clinging onto the bare breast of his wife Elia Martell. Rhaenys shared the dark, Dornish hair of her mother, but shared the same facial structure of her father. Elia had the bed curtains open when Rhaegar emerged into the bedchamber. She had a queer look on her olive face. Rhaegar thought her beautiful, his indigo eyes grew when he laid eyes upon her.<br/>

“My lady, you seem frightened. I hope I do not frighten you. The blood of the dragon runs calm inside me.” Rhaegar sat on the edge of the bed, and clutched onto Elia’s spare hand.<br/>

“Rhaegar, I am with child.” Her cheeks grew red and a half smile grew upon her face. All of a sudden, the room grew hotter.<br/>

“With child? Are you sure? How is your health?” Elia had been bedridden for six months after the birth of Rhaenys. She had been born prematurely, and had felt the affects her entire life.<br/>

“I feel healthy. The maester told me I was with child. Deep down I knew it. A boy, I can feel it. Your prince of ice and fire, Rhaegar.” A larger smile appeared on her face. Rhaegar has desired a son since he was young enough to understand the concept. He wanted to birth a conqueror, a warrior and a king.<br/>

“Aegon.” Rhaegar embraced her warm body, and Rhaenys awoke with a small cry.<br/>

Elia laid Rhaenys in her cot by the side of the bed, covered in satin. HE watched her on the other side of the room as her droopy eyes slowly transported her.<br/>

Rhaegar cupped Elia’s face in his hands and met her bright red lips with his. Suddenly the tourney and the royal court was at the back of his mind. He felt her hand slip into his breeches as he continued to kiss her. It had felt like their first night together, after the bedding ceremony. The room filled with passion and lust until the candle flame had been burnt out.<br/>

Rhaegar dreamt vividly of a comet that night. A red comet flying through the sky like a burning raven. The night was cold, and as he breathed a puff of steam entered the air in front of him. He was not in the Seven Kingdoms, but somewhere higher. He searched for signs of life, but all he could see was the burning flame in the sky.<br/>

The prince awoke with words upon his lips. The prince who was promised sleeps inside my wife. The prince of ice and fire.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Arthur</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Arthur</p><p>Arthur Dayne’s white cloak trailed behind him as he rode through the Kingswood. His bright silver armour beamed the reflected sunlight emerging from the cracks in the trees above. The spring had made the weather mild and the sun shine brighter than it had all winter. The path the detachment walked down was enclosed by trees, so the horses had to walk in single file. Small streams gushed down the side of the path and patches of undergrowth corrupted the dirt beneath them. Arthur wore his sword Dawn strung over his back. The blade was as pale as milk glass, and the double handed hilt was patched with red winding leather and a silver star as its pommel. The sword glowed as I bounced upon the back armour of the Knight of the Kingsguard; larger than any other sword the company had owned. <br/>Lord Sumner Crakehall and his two squires, Jaime Lannister and Merrett Frey rode behind Arthur, almost blinded by the sight of Dawn. The Lord of Crakehall wore silver armour, similar to Arthur Dayne’s armour of the Kingsguard, but slightly less extravagant. His sword rested in its hilt on the side of his brown mare. The freakish blonde squire, Jaime Lannister rode behind him; his horse was smaller but his sword was similar in size to Crakehall’s. He had heard much from the boy as one of the greatest warrior prospects in the Seven Kingdoms, as his Lannister crimson cloak trailed behind him. The Frey boy was not as well-known however, the ninth son of Lord Walder Frey but was nonetheless a robust character. <br/>King Aerys II had tasked the company with ending the madness that came along with the infamous Kingswood Brotherhood, a deadly guild working out of the king’s royal forest. Arthur was hopeful that the mission could end in success, however the previous running the Kingsguard had encountered, Ser Gerold Hightower gained a serious injury. He knew this would be no easy task, particularly with the company of two squires. <br/>As the company rode deeper into the woods, small vales began to appear out of the thickness of the trees. Small hamlets and villages began to appear in clusters. Branches cracked and leaves rustled beneath the feet of their mounts. The earthy air covered Arthur’s tastebuds whilst the smell of thick pines overpowered his nose. The Kingswood was filled to the brim with trees of all shapes and sizes; oak, beech, maple and hickory trees all lined up in disorderly fashions around them. He heard Jaime Lannister snigger behind him.<br/>As the band of warriors stumbled upon a small village, Arthur warned the others about the dangers of the smallfolk. The Brotherhood sheltered the smallfolk, and in return they would divert royal forces from finding their hideout. Their rights as dwellers in the Kingswood were only recognised by the Brotherhood. Arthur had known of the notorious Smiling Knight as one of the notable members, as well as Wenda the White Fawn and Oswyn Longneck the Thrice-Hanged. This band of rebels were no ordinary hedge knights.<br/>Arthur stepped off of his horse, the mare shaking its head as he stepped off, Dawn still tightly strapped on his back. The other three remained on their horses. A large broad-shouldered man approached him, short locks of brown hair capping a sharp face and brown eyes. He seemed suspicious of the fabled knight.<br/>“Kingsguard, aye. And a pretty little sword like that. My bets you’re the Sword of the Morning.” He spoke in a common smallfolk tone, proud but dim-witted.<br/>“I am Arthur Dayne, knight of the Kingsguard. My companions and I have been tasked by His Grace the king to seek out the Kingswood Brotherhood. If you have any knowledge of their whereabouts the king can award you gracefully.” The Sword of the Morning spoke well.<br/>“You see, what you noble folk forget to realise, is that it’s the Brotherhood that’s giving us our protection. There ain’t no Kingsguard or City Watch out here in the Kingswood. Just us lot. And we need protection.” What the man was saying was true, the king cared not for the Kingswood or its people, and the fact there was no true ruling lord meant that much of the area went lawlessly unchecked.<br/>“I understand. But the Brotherhood are outlaws and criminals. They must face the king’s noble justice.” Arthur Dayne seemed concerned.<br/>“What can us smallfolk gain from ridding the forest of our only protectors?” Arthur paused for a moment.<br/>“If you and your fellow townsfolk give me and my companions the location of the Brotherhood, I will ensure the king grants you better protection and a reduction in tax. The royal forces will also now pay for anything royal forces may take from the peasantry. Is this sufficient?” <br/>“I will need to gather my folk. Feel free to gather around the fire whilst we talk things over.” The man pointed to a small campfire in the centre of the village. Lord Crakehall, Jaime Lannister and Merrett Frey all went over to sit upon the logs. <br/>The fire burned hot, and smoked high up into the canopy of the forest. Jaime took out his water leather, and took a large gulp, his blue eyes staring to the sky as he did. Merrett Frey took a bit out of some bread, and Lord Crakehall sat in silence.<br/>“Jaime tell me. How long have you been a fighter?” Arthur questioned.<br/>“My lord, I have been training ever since I could hold a sword. My father liked me to train in literacy and arithmetic. But the sword was always my speciality.” Even for a boy of fourteen, fifteen or sixteen, he had a swagger about him; or was it a subtle arrogance. <br/>“I have heard great stories about you. It must be a true honour for a boy to squire a great lord like Crakehall here.” The Sword of the Morning beckoned to the lord.<br/>“Save your comments, Dayne. His lord and Hand of the King father Tywin Lannister asked me to take his son on our mission to groom him, so I best not refuse him. From what I have seen, the little Lord Lannister he is one to watch.” Lord Crakehall spoke with a stern voice. <br/>Arthur remembered the day that Jaime had been born. The whole Seven Kingdoms rejoiced that Tywin Lannister the great Lord of Casterly Rock had been born a son, albeit with a twin sister. It was said that the sky in the Westerlands grew red for a fortnight after his birth, but he was not sure how true that part was. <br/>“My lord, if I may; you have been one of my heroes growing up. I saw myself how valiantly you fought on the tournament of Prince Viserys’ birth. The way you defeated Rhaegar in the joust was magnificent.” Jaime Lannister stated.<br/>“You flatter me, lord. I am sure one day you will win many a joust.” <br/>Arthur was cut off by a cluster of smallfolk standing over the company. Men and women of every size stood lined up, the stench of the forest looming over every one. The man who spoke earlier approached them. The men stood up.<br/>“As the folk of the Kingswood, we have decided to accept your offer and the offer of His Grace the king. The Brotherhood are encamped just north of here, beyond a small ford. They would have a fire burning.” Arthur and the rest were pleased.<br/>“We thank you for your honesty, and I will make sure the king takes up on your requests.” He shook the hand of the man.<br/>Arthur and the company quickly got ahorse, and they continued down the path. The sun was still up, and there was light through the trees but they wanted to make good time. The four quickly reached the ford, white water gushing next to smooth pebbles and a muddy shore. They could see the brotherhood encamped.  It was surrounded by thick oak trees, and flanked by the ford the smallfolk warned them of. The logistics were perfect for to defend from an army, but not from a fellowship. The Smiling Knight was sharpening his sword on a grindstone, and the others were scattered around. They were making noise; they are hard to find only because of their location and not their wit.<br/>They had the element of surprise and used it to their advantage. Lord Crakehall was the first to strike, clambering up the slippery banks and striking down Big Belly Ben with one hard slash across the chest and left his entrails spluttered on the ground like red paint. Their cover was now blown, and Arthur and the two squires came into the camp after Lord Crakehall. The Sword of the Morning drew Dawn from his back, and immediately the snow-white blade was plunged into the heart of the larger-than-life Ulmer, and chilling screams were heard as the life left his body. Before it could fall to the ground, Fletcher Dick drew arrows from hallway across the camp, aiming for the Frey boy. He dodged the first but was stuck in the shoulder and he came crashing to the floor. Luckily, Jaime Lannister was in close proximity to the archer, and he cut away his bow and arrow before another shot could be made. Jaime then released his sword onto his chest, crushing his ribs with the force. Before he could think, Arthur was faced with Oswyn Longneck. He drew his long iron sword and lunged at Arthur, missing his first blow. The Sword of the Morning took Dawn and cut across his back armour, leaving a split in the metal. Oswyn lurched back in pain, recklessly swinging at the knight in anger. Arthur managed to block his blade and launched a counter attack that knocked the Longneck off balance. Dawn was sent into the side of Oswyn, and the Thrice-Hanged was no more, the green eyes turned pale and his wound was spilling with blood. After he fell to the ground, Arthur heard struggling. The Smiling Knight was engaged with Jaime. He was donned in all black armour, that reminded Arthur of Prince Rhaegar. He held metal shield on his left arm and a one-handed bastard sword in the other. He was a tall man, not as large as Ulmer had been, but no match in size to the relatively small Jaime Lannister. His face had a large scar running diagonally from his left eye, and his hair was the black of his armour. Jaime in his red crimson armour lunged at the knight, seemingly knocking him off balance, and then going for a second attack, denting his armour. The Smiling Knight attacked but Jaime moved quickly; the young squire certainly had speed on his side. The Lannister was fighting well until the Smiling Knight noticed Arthur Dayne sprinting over. He shoved Jaime back with his shield, staining his red cloak in the mud of the Kingswood. The Smiling Knight looked towards Arthur.<br/>“Smiling knight, bane of the Kingswood. I challenge you to single combat. You and me, in light of gods and men.” The Smiling Knight moved towards him.<br/>“I accept. But no god nor man will mourn for you.”<br/>The Smiling Knight was first to strike. Leading with his sword hand he slashed right to left across the chest of the Sword of the Morning. Dawn blocked the attach, and sparks flew off the swords. He attacked again, this time a plunge towards Arthur’s liver, but he dodged and cut across the legs of the outlaw. He jumped up in pain, and hit Arthur over the head with his shield, and left him ringing. Nevertheless, the knight managed to mount a strong attack that hit the forearm of the outlaw’s sword hand. He turned his back, and Arthur Dayne swiped across his back. The Smiling Knight fell to the ground; his sword flew into the air and landed a few feet in front of him. <br/>“Stand, and I shall grant you a sword.” Arthur offered.<br/>“The sword I truly desire if the one in your hand, knight.” The Smiling Knight spat on the ground.<br/>“Dawn was forged from the heart of a fallen star. It has unrivalled strength and speed. Whoever wields it is known as the Sword of the Morning.” He began to kneel.<br/>“It would be fitting wouldn’t it. Killed by your own family’s sword. I request it.” The outlaw pointed to Dawn.<br/>“Then you shall have it, ser.”<br/>The Sword of the Morning took his blade and drove it through the Smiling Knight. Blood trickled from his mouth and his limbs grew limp. His armour had shattered upon Dawn’s entry to his heart. Arthur removed the blade, and he fell to his side. He saw Jaime Lannister stand up, and Lord Crakehall tending to the wounds of the Frey boy. The Kingswood was free.<br/>Arthur Dayne walked towards Jaime Lannister. Although somewhat rough spun, the boy managed to find his feet and dust himself off after a valiant effort to hold off the Smiling Knight. <br/>“Jaime, you fought bravely and with great honour. You did yourself and you house proud today. After what I have seen here today, you will make a grand knight of the Seven Kingdoms.” Shock mounted on the young boy’s face.<br/>“Ser, I do not know what to say, I…” He could not articulate words, and began to stutter.<br/>“Kneel… In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women. Jaime Lannister, do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege lord and your king, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks that are laid upon you, however hard or humble they may be?” Jaime shuddered as he kneeled. He seemed in awe of the words the knight of the Kingsguard was speaking. <br/>“I do, my lord.” Jaime looked at the ground and his voice cracked as he attempted to articulate words.<br/>“Then rise, Ser Jaime Lannister. And serve the realm.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Elia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Elia</p><p>Elia stood on the balcony of her room, overseeing the Red Keep. The warm breeze was corrupted as high up as she was, but the blue sky and lack of clouds gave a true feel of spring. Her slender body was fitted in a yellow dress, thin enough to see the outlines of her body. Her fingers trailed along the red wall keeping her from the edge. Rhaenys was asleep, and Rhaegar had gone to discuss his courtly matters with Jon Connington; the two had been spending quite a large amount of time together since their return to King’s Landing. <br/>The journey from Dragonstone to King’s Landing was a perilous one. The seas had been violent for a time before they left, and Rhaegar patiently waited for the Narrow Sea to calm before heading to the capital. But, in the end, they were forced to leave the Targaryen citadel in the midst of terrible winds and rain. The room abord her husband’s ship was damp and claustrophobic, not even close to the standards of their room in King’s Landing, let along the royal bedchamber on Dragonstone. There had been times where fearing for her life and the life of Rhaenys was feasible, but the great ship Balerion pulled through Blackwater Bay and dropped anchor in the harbour.<br/>The room was finely furnished in trinkets and luxuries from Essos, giving it an exotic feel. Despite the breeze, the hearth had been lit all morning, and inside the heat was bearable. <br/>The capital was quite the contrast to both Dragonstone and Sunspear. The island of her husband was cold and bleak, the fortress immense but frightening and the townsfolk queer. Her true home in Sunspear was where she usually dreamed of. The water gardens with the smell of tropical plants, fresh cool water to fight the scorching heat and most of all, her family. She had come to discover the people north of Dorne were not the same as they were south of the Dornish Marches. They were conservative and sometimes dull. She loved Rhaegar dearly, but the rest of his company was dull. Ashara Dayne was the only true friend she had, and even then, she was another Dornishwoman. King’s Landing had the odour of poverty and hunger, mixed with the sewing of dissent and distrust. She rarely left her room, if only to attend feasts. She had Ashara supply her with fresh grapes, Dornish bread and wine. <br/>She felt her stomach swell; my boy she murmured under her breath. Giving Rhaegar children was what she desired the most, to fulfil her duty as a wife. She knew how much he adored Rhaenys, but she was mostly Dornish. Even when King Aerys had first held her, he had stated that she had ‘smelt Dornish’. She wanted her son to have the silver hair and indigo eyes of her husband and his ancestors. <br/>That would have been the case had Rhaegar married one of his own family, in normal Targaryen tradition. However, a daughter had not been granted to Aerys II, and after many miscarriages it was a surprise that Prince Viserys had managed to live beyond the womb. The Dornish custom of marriage was not the same as anywhere else in Westeros, with both males and females taking on multiple lovers, but inbreeding seemed a queer custom even to her. There were rumblings among the royal court that King Aerys’ madness was caused by inbreeding, but that much was not proven.<br/>Ashara was one of the only people she could trust. Elia sometimes was reluctant to trust even Rhaegar; King’s Landing was a breeding place for moles and rats. She was vulnerable, that much was true and if it was not for her brother Lewyn in the Kingsguard, other than Rhaegar she was unprotected. Aerys was mad and unpredictable, and most of the royal court was afraid of questioning him. The burnings were intense, but as he was the king it was acceptable. <br/>The wind was getting cold on Elia’s thin layer of olive skin. She walked inside her room, and took a seat on the chair beside Rhaenys’ cot. She peered over her daughter as she slept, running her fingers through the dark hair of House Martell. It reminded her of Oberyn. <br/>The Red Viper of Dorne had been the closest to her out of any of her siblings, but it had been a while since she had been in his presence. Her brother Lewyn Martell served as a knight of the Kingsguard, and she spent some time with him but Oberyn was her closest sibling.<br/>She pictured them on their journey of Westeros with her mother in the search of potential suitors. She had been dragged from Starfall to Oldtown, and her brother had mocked every man that had shown an interest. She fetched a piece of parchment and a quill, and laid it out over an oak table.<br/>My dear Oberyn, I hope this finds you well.<br/>Rhaegar and I have been in King’s Landing for a time now, and intend to visit Lord Whent’s grand tourney at Harrenhal. Rhaegar seems particularly eager to attend. Will you or any of our family be attending? Our brother Lewyn is in good health, as am I after the woes of childbirth. Your niece Rhaenys had the brown hair, eyes and olive skin of our house. She will grow to be as beautiful and wise as our mother. I do hope I can see you in the near future.<br/>Yours, Elia.<br/>The message was bound for Sunspear, but if Oberyn was there she did not know.<br/>As the ink dried, she heard a knock on the hardwood door. She opened to see Ashara Dayne standing in the doorway, her purple eyes adjusting to the beaming light from the balcony. Ashara had a sea-blue gown hung over her right shoulder, dragging down to the floor: it complimented her skin tone well enough. She was an inch or two taller than Elia, but the two looked somewhat similar. <br/>“Ashara, what a pleasant surprise. What brings you here?” Elia sat back down at the table.<br/>“It is a matter of marriage, my lady. My father sent a raven from Starfall stating that he has had contact from an old and powerful house for my hand in marriage.” She blushed, and her Dornish skin began to lighten.<br/>“There shall be a grand wedding for you both. Who has asked for your hand?”<br/>“House Stark of Winterfell, my lady. It is said that Lord Rickard wishes to marry his second son Eddard away to a Dornish house. My father sent a raven as soon as he heard. His eldest son, Brandon is said to be marrying Catelyn Tully of Riverrun.” Ashara sat beside Elia, her dress trailing out of the open-backed seat.<br/>“House Stark are both honourable and powerful. What a grand match. When my mother first said I was to be marrying a Targaryen prince, I could barely stand. What an opportunity this is for both you and Dorne. A grand alliance is in the making, I can feel it.” Elia knew what this could mean for the realm. The political climate was on the brink for months, but a grand alliance could balance the great powers.<br/>“Nothing formal has been arranged yet. The Starks are supposed to be attending the tourney at Harrenhal, perhaps I could introduce myself. There is set to be a grand feast in the Great Hall.” Ashara no longer had the look at of blushing girl, but now a confident woman.<br/>Lord Whent’s tourney was seeming more and more important as the days went on. Every powerful lord and lady were scheduled to attend. Deep down, she was praying for Rhaegar’s victory in the joust, to be crowned with flowers. She was also praying for Oberyn’s attendance, but in all honesty, he could be bedding exotic whores in the Free Cities rather than at Sunspear. For a moment she became so consumed she forgot Ashara Dayne was still in her presence. <br/>“We should celebrate.” Elia swiftly walked over to her bedside and picked up a glass container with Dornish wine. Ashara offered out a goblet and she poured. The blood-red liquid gushed into the cups, “It will be a great honour to be by your side, Ashara. The unison of two great houses will be a wonderful occasion for the realm to witness.”</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Jaime</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The young knight’s horse was chafing at his smallclothes. Three days of riding from the Kingswood had taken its toll on him. He approached the Red Keep’s menacing portcullis proud and uplifted however. The looming towers and vast Great Hall stood over him like giants to a rabbit. He was exhausted, and excited to finally see Cersei.<br/>
He had not seen his sister in the better part of a year. She had been taken to King’s Landing as he had been taken under the wing of Lord Crakehall, who rode to his left after nursing Merrett Frey back to health from his arrowhead puncture. The young squire still wore a bandage over his upper leg, and seemed awfully pale. The fever may have taken his colour. In all honesty, he did not care for the Frey boy as much as his lust for his sister. Even his father must be lying in wait of him… but that could hold on.<br/>
He had been picturing her soft skin, beautiful blue eyes and gracious blonde hair since he left the Kingswood. His only worry would be his imminent return to Casterly Rock now he was an anointed knight. Regardless, he was to make his time with Cersei worthwhile.<br/>
The company of four finally pulled into the courtyard of the Red Keep, stumbling off of their horses. The Sword of the Morning was to report to King Aerys of their success, and Lord Crakehall was to wait for Merrett Frey’s injury to heal before returning to the Westerlands, with Jaime.<br/>
Jaime managed to avoid the small talk with the other people residing in the Red Keep, and headed for Cersei. The day was nearly done, and the pale red bricks of the castle slowly became emerged in the dark dusk sky. His way was lit by torches and his heart strings.<br/>
Jaime had only been in the capital a few times, and it was most definitely a stark contrast to his home at Casterly Rock, and even the city of Lannisport. He noted that it was much larger in size and population, and that although the city was undoubtably richer, poverty hung over it like an overcast sky in winter. The coming of spring had helped, though. Food could be distributed more easily and the calmer weather had the smallfolk and nobility happier alike.<br/>
As he was approaching Cersei’ chambers, he wondered how her life at court may have changed her. Could she have taken a new lover? Or perhaps had she become colder? This was all buzzing around Jaime’s mind as he prepared a reluctant knock on her door. Luckily there were no guards posted outside of the chamber, only at the bottom of Maegor’s Holdfast. He had been informed Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia were occupying the top level, and he assumed they would be much more important to guard.<br/>
He heard the jingling of keys as the lock turned and Cersei was standing in front of him. She wore a thin red satin dress, decorated with lions that protected her perky breasts. They had grown, as had her lips that matched the red of her gown. Her hair had been braided behind her head, and her eyelashes blushed as she took in Jaime. He must have seemed slightly dirty and his armour was damaged from the skirmish in the Kingswood.<br/>
It seemed to matter none to Cersei, who embraced him harder than he remembered. They were a similar height and weight, so it was easy to maintain. She left his arms to shut the door, then lock it. He turned towards her, and she met it with a warm, wet kiss. Cersei’s hands covered the Jaime’s cheeks, and he did the same. After the long exchange of courtesies were over, he finally spoke.<br/>
“I have missed you.” He did not know what else to conjure.<br/>
“My, you have grown. And your voice is ever so deeper. I heard of a victory for you in the Kingswood, I was worried sick. I was doubting if you would ever return…” Jaime stopped her to kiss her again.<br/>
“I am fine. I am now an anointed knight. Ser Arthur Dayne did it himself. I am no longer a slave to Lord Crakehall.” Her deep blue eyes seemed to beam.<br/>
“Does that mean you can stay here? Oh Jaime, so much has happened we need to speak about.” She took his hand and led him to a small table opposite her bed. She threw some sticks into the hearth to warm the room up.<br/>
“What has happened?” Jaime seemed concerned.<br/>
“Father has not yet found a match for me and I am to remain at court for the foreseeable future. You on the other hand… he seems to want to wed you to Lysa Tully of Riverrun. Lord Hoster and father have already discussed the dower it seems. He told me himself.” The smile on her face that was once their had turned to dust, and her glowing lips began to dim.<br/>
“That damned Tully girl. I wanted to spend more time with her brother Brynden than her when I was in Riverrun. Just when I was beginning to feel I could stay with you again; father plays his marriage cards. Can he not give Tyrion to the trout whore?” The young Lannister was disgusted.<br/>
“He seems fairly set. Although perhaps it means you can stay in King’s Landing for a few weeks?” Cersei spoke in a hopeful tone.<br/>
“I can stay here until Merrett Frey has recovered. He took an arrow to the leg in the Kingswood. The wound has festered and Lord Crakehall cannot take me back to Casterly Rock before it has healed, or else the poor boy might die. If I am to go there and not Riverrun now.” Jaime had spent two weeks in Riverrun a few years back. His father seemed to enjoy the prospect of a Lannister-Tully alliance; especially now the Starks had seemed set to marry into the family.<br/>
“That Frey boy was always weak. How was the battle, what happened?” Cersei sat forward on her chair and laid her hand on top of Jaime’s.<br/>
“It was magnificent. The Sword of the Morning was graceful and brutal all the same. His sword glowed milky white before it was stained with the blood of the Brotherhood. It is said to be forged from a fallen star. Nonetheless, I was knighted after I held of the Smiling Knight… and I would have beaten him if not for his shield.” His sister seemed impressed, and she seemed to be eyeing him up and down. His armour was getting slightly uncomfortable.<br/>
“My Jaime… now a knight.” Her face was puzzled, as if she was in deep thought, “What if you became a knight of the Kingsguard; you would be able to stay here in King’s Landing with me. King Aerys is searching for a new member after the death of Ser Harlan.”<br/>
Jaime smiled warmly, but thought the idea almost odd, “Father would never consent. As much as I would love to, I would be forced to give up my claim to Casterly Rock, and Tyrion would never be able to be a great lord.”<br/>
“He could only disapprove silently. It would be a great honour for our house. King Aerys would grant you the rank, out of love for our father. Please, Jaime.” She begged.<br/>
“Father would never…” before he could finish, Cersei jumped at him. She pushed her lips to his, and untied the lace holding Jaime’s armour intact. In return, he reached out to feel her breasts. She let out a deep breath, and threw his armour to the floor, leaving only a thin tunic and his smallclothes on his body. The two quicky arose and found her bed. She clambered on top of him, removing her dress and revealing her naked body. Jaime’s heart was racing and his blood was pumping, even more than his fight with the Smiling Knight. She reached down to his manhood and aggressively placed it inside her. Jaime had remembered how she had felt in Casterly Rock, but she was now different. Warmer and wetter than he had even dreamed.<br/>
After Jaime was finished, Cersei reached over to her beside table and poured some Arbour wine. Before Jaime could have a sip, he felt Cersei’s mouth embrace his manhood. He had wondered where she had learned this at first, but before long he realised to lay down and watch. The night was filled with passion and desire, that which the young knight had been lusting over for years.<br/>
When he finally slept with his sister in his arms, he dreamt of Arthur Dayne. He was fighting Brynden Tully, an odd paring but eventually Dawn cut through the scaley armour of the Blackfish.<br/>
His dream was cut short by the glaring light skimming over Blackwater Bay. The thin spring curtains acted as a useless inhibitor. He rolled over to see Cersei’s bare body stretched out over the crimson feather mattress. He stared for a while, and then began to dress. He picked a yellow doublet and black breeches, capped with a golden lion necklace. Only the best would suit his father. He had dressed and left all before Cersei had awoken, and as it seemed, any guard had come to the doors of the tower; luckily for the young knight.<br/>
The Tower of the Hand was only a few hundred steps across from Maegor’s Holdfast, the morning dew crunching under his feet. He saw Prince Rhaegar conversing with the knight of the Kingsguard, Oswell Whent, and the young Lord Connington.<br/>
The crenelated battlements and large windows of the tower arose from the flat roof of the Grand Hall, and Jaime began to scale the steps. He first came to the Small Hall, a long room with a high-vaulted ceiling, was the first to present itself at the bottom floor, followed by the private audience chamber a few hundred steps higher. As Jaime stepped in, he was immediately greeted with superficial Myrish rugs, wall hangings and a golden tinted round window. At the back of the long room, he saw his father. Lord Tywin bore a deep red jerkin, with his Hand of the King pin attached to his left breast. His bald head shone as the light emerged from the small window behind his desk.<br/>
“Jaime. Or should I call you, Ser Jaime. Congratulations my son. You have done this house a great honour.” Lord Tywin stood tom greet his son, and held out a welcoming hand.<br/>
“Thank you, father. I am just pleased I can move on from my role as a squire. Lord Crakehall treated me well, but being a knight is a great title to behold.”<br/>
“It certainly is. Now, I take it you are not here to discuss your magnificent duel with the Smiling Knight. Ser Arthur has already informed me of this anyway. You are now a knight, which means you are to return to Casterly Rock after the poor Frey boy is nursed back to health.” Lord Tywin began to muster some papers from a draw.<br/>
“Father…” Before Jaime could articulate an answer, he was interrupted.<br/>
“You are my heir. Which means you must bear my grandchildren and further the family line. To do that, you need a wife, I am sure you are aware of the intimate details. I have been discussing with Lord Hoster Tully a possible match between you and his daughter, Lady Lysa. You remember her I am sure. Lord Hoster assures me she is still a maid, despite the talk around it. Although his dower was cheap, we can work around it.” Lord Tywin was fairly certain of his proposition.<br/>
“Do I have a say in any of this?” Ser Jaime seemed restless. Should he let his father know of his proposition?<br/>
“In all honesty Jaime, no. You only need to get her with child and be seen with her on public occasions…”<br/>
“Father. I wish to join the Kingsguard.” He was stiff with fright. Lord Tywin stopped his writing.<br/>
“You understand the complications… you will give up the rights to Casterly Rock and any children you may bare.” His face was growing red. Anger was seeping out of his nostrils.<br/>
“I understand, father. It is a great honour.” Tywin Lannister began to stand.<br/>
“You cannot! You must no! I will not have an incompetent, murderous dwarf inherit the Rock. You will not join the Kingsguard.” His foot stamped down, and the Tower of the Hand seemingly shook.<br/>
“I will. The king has already been informed.” Regardless of his father, the young knight stood strong.<br/>
“Aerys has done this hasn’t he! The treacherous inbred vermin. He is looking to strip me of my heir. Go and become a glorified bodyguard, live out your days listening to the Mad King rape his sister.”<br/>
For a moment the room froze. Lord Tywin was a creature of rage, a devil from the depths of the Seven Hells. He cursed Aerys, he cursed Jaime. The Lord of Casterly Rock took his pin and launched it across the room, an inch away from scarring his son. Jaime had realised his proposal was going ahead, but the Hand of the King would be serving no more. The lion of Lannister had been awoken, and his fit of fiery fury roared into the dusk sky.<br/>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Rhaegar II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As the spring days went on, the weather began to steadily improve, and the sun shone ever brighter. It was around midday in King’s Landing as Prince Rhaegar strummed his silver-stringed harp. The gracefully hummed a tune under his breath, as he was sat with his back next to the forge. He dressed in all black, with a hood covering his silver hair. His indigo eyes carefully studying every note he played. <br/>The Street of Steel was bustling this time of day. He could vaguely catch the foul odour of the Fishmonger’s Square, but the sweet sounds of the harp distracted his senses. The climbers of Visenya’s Hill seemed indifferent to the Prince; his identity remained anonymous. Occasionally someone would turn and toss him a copper, which would immediately be tossed back, or throw him a compliment. Barefoot children danced and played amongst the mud of the road. Rhaegar sat nearly at the top of Visenya’s hill, where the most desirable steel workers and armourers were. The Prince sat outside Tohbo Mott’s workshop, awaiting his order. <br/>Sometimes he would imagine what the life of the passers by would be like. For a man born amongst riches and noblemen, he rarely took the time to picture himself as a member of the peasantry. The people whose company he took would like to assure him that they were uninteresting, and only living for the purpose of feeding everybody else. But unlike those noblemen, Rhaegar liked to sit among them, breath their air albeit for a short while. Where he could, the Dragonknight would play his harp or sing his songs to please them. <br/>Tobho Mott’s house of plaster and timber loomed over the rest of the street. The huge oak double doors had a hunting scene carved into them. A queer man with a with a thin, slender body and long, brown hair swung the doors opened and beckoned Rhaegar over. Before Rhaegar even had the chance to stand, the Qohorik blacksmith raised his voice to say “quick, quick.”<br/>Rhaegar entered the building and laid his harp next to the door. The large room in which Tobho worked was heated, and the fire of the forge brighter than any hearth in the Red Keep. The stone floor even grew warmer as the prince walked closer to the blacksmith. Racks of swords and plated armour lined the walls, with small windows indented either side. <br/>“Master Rhaegar, I present to you, true armour of a dragon.” Tobho stood back to reveal the Targaryen’s armour.<br/>The night black breastplate stood tall on its stand. The three headed dragon of House Targaryen was decorated with rubies and garnets in the centre, with a thin layer of ringmail underneath. The armour was broad, and small layers of iron were layered to make a scaly texture, resembling a dragon. Above the breastplate, Rhaegar’s helm stood. It was jet black as the other armour, but decorated with gold, orange and red silken streamers to resemble fire. The Dragonknight stood back in awe. <br/>“I… I cannot thank you enough. Armour fit for Aegon the Conqueror himself.” Rhaegar was lost for words.<br/>“I learned my trade in my home city of Qohor. There we still talk about the wonders of the Valyrian dragons. I was never lucky enough to see one, but to make armour for the Dragonknight himself is a true honour.” The smith seemed chuffed.<br/>“When I win the Harrenhal tourney, it will be for you, Tobho. I truly have never seen anything quite like it.” The prince strolled around the armour stand, running his fingers across the steel.<br/>“I am honoured, Lord Rhaegar. Will there be anything else?” <br/>“I wish there was, but no I am needed elsewhere.” He took a purse of gold out of his pocket and placed it on the desk in front of him, “this should cover the armour, and more. I thank you, truly.”<br/>It was double what he owed, but still he thought that the work was worth it. Rhaegar picked up his armour and his harp and left the store. He made his way down Visenya’s Hill, passing some Goldcloaks, a few drunks and some orphans. But still, nobody seemed to give him any notice. The streets were unusually quiet, especially for a spring day on Rhaegar’s walk back to the Red Keep. <br/>It was just past midday as he stepped foot through the portcullis of the Red Keep, the pale crimson bricks standing tall either side. They towered over the rest of the city by some distance. HE could see the Great Sept of Baelor in the distance, and the bustling port down below. Perhaps that is where all the smallfolk have flocked to.<br/>He quickly passed Maegor’s Holdfast, and quickly elevated himself up the staircase to place his armour. To his surprise, neither Elia nor Rhaenys were there. He swiftly laid down his belongings and opened the door to descend. The holdfast was not where he needed to be as of now, Maegor wanted no rats in his walls. It was the back wall of the Red Keep he wanted. He opened the door of the guard tower, and to his luck there were no guards on patrol. He entered the walls of the castle and opened a small wooden door, leading to a staircase. At the bottom of the staircase, Rhaegar spotted a pile of rocks, of which he began to move to reveal a trapdoor. The guards have done their job, the prince thought. The trapdoor opened and a steep foot ladder spiralled down to a cave. The trip down was dangerous, and once or twice the prince actually lost his footing, but before long he entered the cave.<br/>The large void of dampness curled around like a semi-circle, the jagged ceiling rising high above him. There was a large echo, but an echo that made his voice sound queer. He grabbed a torch from a panel next to the ladder and followed the cave walls. Before long, Rhaegar stopped to find people gathered around a wooden table. He first saw his friend Jon Connington and his hair and beard kissed by fire, but then made out the faces of Ser Myles Mooton of Maidenpool and Ser Richard Lonmouth. Ser Myles was bold as brass, and had a strong looking face with dark hair and a tufted beard. Ser Richard, or the Knight of Skulls and Kisses, stood taller than Ser Myles, but had a welcoming face. When the three men turned to face Rhaegar, they met him with a warm smile and a bow, before sitting down on the table. The prince chose the seat closest to him to sit, and grab a goblet from the middle of the table to pour himself a cup of wine. <br/>“My lords and knights, thank you all for coming. I am glad I have such loyal friends in support of me.” He raised his glass, and the others followed.<br/>“It is a pleasure to be in your service, my prince. And in the service of the realm, which is in dire need of sane help at this time.” Lord Jon spoke calmly after he has sipped the red liquid. <br/>“As we know, the fact that my father has expressed his intentions to attend the Harrenhal tourney has hindered our plans slightly, but there are other ways of getting some of the lords paramount to side with our cause. I plan to win the tourney and attempt to unite our supporters under my victory. Whilst you are there also, I expect you to be making small talk with the lords. Find out their ambitions, intentions and make sure to get them drunk.” The seeds of discord amongst the realm were being sewed deep underneath Aegon’s High Hill.<br/>“My lord, we have actually uncovered some slightly unnerving news. In the last few hours, it seems Lord Tywin Lannister has retired to Casterly Rock due to ‘bad health’ and has given up his role as Hand of the King.” Ser Richard spoke up in a concerned tone of voice.<br/>“Lannister? Why? Still, there must be some leverage to our plan. Who is the replacement?” Rhaegar could not fathom that outcome. He knew that relations between the two were souring, but Lord Tywin leaving the post altogether? That seemed bazaar, especially after the knighthood of his son.<br/>“It seems Lord Owen Merryweather has replaced him as the New Hand of the King. He left only last night, taking only him, his belongings and his daughter.” Ser Myles stated.<br/>“Of course, who else but a puppet of my father. Tywin was a begrudged old man but at least he did his best to control my father, even in his madness. Lord Merryweather, the praise lavisher.” Lord Owen was most known for laughing at the king’s jokes rather loudly, “I will now be the centre of court intrigue now Lannister has left. You mentioned his daughter, what of his son? Newly knighted I heard.”<br/>“He has supposedly pledged to become a member of the Kingsguard. Perhaps this is what tipped Lord Tywin over the edge? After all, a Lannister always pays his debts.” Lord Jon spoke next, and took a sip of wine.<br/>“I heard the boy held his own against the Smiling Knight. But he is the heir to Casterly Rock, why throw it away?” Lord Tywin has another heir, but he had heard he was malformed and monstrous.<br/>“Perhaps a political ploy? Who knows? The court is tipping us out of favour and it seems your father is only sealing his place as king. For us, Harrenhal is do or die, my prince. We must gain a foothold.” Ser Myles stated.<br/>The cave grew colder as the meeting went on. He had hoped that the tunnels under the Red Keep were as secret as they seemed, however it was said that the walls have ears in the castle. Nobody was ever safe from Varys and his little birds; conjuring lies into the madness of his father. Varys would be removed, should Rhaegar rise to power. As would all of his fathers Small Council and the court would be drained of bootlickers and crowd pleasers. The Targaryen dynasty as they knew it was in the balance. He prayed to the Seven that there would be no blood spilt, but he would do what he needed to. <br/>He had seen a huge battle in the water one night in his dreams. A huge horned beast would tower over him and crush his breastplate. The men at arms would stare at the two warriors, awaiting the outcome. Perhaps his father was not the true enemy, but a false idol. Or maybe his dreams did not display the entire truth.<br/>“The realm needs to be saved. It is down to us. Raise your glasses good sers. To the realm.”<br/>To the realm hissed around the echoey cave walls.</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Brandon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Wild Wolf’s thick brown cloak blew behind him in the wind. Behind him rode his brothers Eddard and Benjen and his sister Lyanna. Even as a boy he had towered over all of them, but as a man grown, he was even taller. His face was hardened and his eyes were grey. The heir to Winterfell bore a tight black leather jerkin with a wolf sewn into it, with his sword trailing down the side of his leg. His company consisted of his siblings, ten Stark men-at-arms and head of his household guard, Ser Martyn Cassel and two of the eldest sons of Walder Frey with a younger squire. They had been with him the length of the road to Harrenhal, and their final destination was fast approaching.<br/>
The road was harsh, but as the company got further south the weather improved, almost spring like. Before they left, the Winterfell maester had informed Brandon that the journey would be mild, and there were signs of spring, especially in the south. The weather had not been the main issue, though. They had been nearly caught out by some bandits in the Barrowlands, an arrow near missing one of their foot soldiers. They had also been forced to feast at The Twins with the ancient Lord Walder Frey. The feast has been luscious, but the company not so much. The riverman has tried to convince Brandon to marry one of his daughters. “You can have the pick”, he had said in his weaselly voice. When he informed Lord Walder that he was betrothed to Catelyn Tully of Riverrun, he nearly choked on his chicken breast. His brother Benjen was the next lucky victim, but he kindly refused. On their exit from the crossing, Lord Walder had asked the Starks to escort two of his sons, Lothar and Jammos to the tourney. A squire was to tail along to ‘get the sense of spilled blood’ according to the lord of The Twins. He had informed them he would take no part in a meeting of the great lords as he was shunned by them all, but he wanted to send his middle children in his place. From The Twins they headed to Fairmarket by the Blue Fork. There, Eddard had met up with his siblings from The Eyrie; where he was being kept as a ward of Jon Arryn. Neither Jon nor Robert Baratheon joined him, though. From then on it was only a couple of weeks ride down to Harrenhal and it had seemed as though they would be making good time. Brandon had never ventured this far south, and as a rule of thumb it was rare that any Starks would, after the submission of King Torrhen Stark to Aegon the Conqueror, the King Who Knelt he was known as from then on.<br/>
The buzz around the tourney was special amongst his siblings. Opportunities to meet the other great lords and ladies and step out of Winterfell. But Brandon knew his duty as heir to Winterfell. Lord Rickard had instructed him to forge ties and relations. There were clearly greater ambitions Lord Stark had in mind, his family had long since been isolated from southron politics. This tourney was a chance to make their name heard once more. The alliance between the Starks, Tullys and Baratheons was in full swing, but there was potential for others in the mix. Lord Rickard had informed him of a Dayne girl interested in a match with Eddard. It made Brandon feel like a lord already.<br/>
There was a light mist in the air, with small droplets lingering like fireflies. As the road seemed to open itself up to a clearing and the trees clawed back, the grand castle revealed itself. The thick, towering walls seemed immensely strong, and bent round until they met with the banks of the God’s Eye. The night black shade of the castle would make it impossible to see at night, and stuck out like a phantom in the snow. The five menacing towers stood high, but only the tops could be seen behind the incomparable height of the walls. They were named by King Harren the Black; Tower of Dread, the Widow’s Tower, the Wailing Tower, the Tower of Ghosts and the Kingspyre Tower. They stood as high as mountain cliffs and seemed impossible to scale. Brandon had never seen The Wall, but he imagined it to be as high. The battlements were lined with wooden scorpions, but compared to the towers they were as small as real scorpions. The shortest tower seemed twice the size of the tallest tower in Winterfell. But there was something queer about them. They stood not straight, but malformed. Perhaps they had been made malleable by the sheer heat of dragon fire.<br/>
But to the left of Harrenhal, the tourney grounds were set up. It seemed like a star in the nights sky compared to the bleak, dreary colour of the castle. There were banners of each house and bright torches lining the middle of the jousting ranks. Archery targets and melee circles stood beside huge tankards of ale and mead. Either side of the jousting ranks, enormous wooden stands were used as the seating, with a box he assumed was for the king standing higher. As they rode ever nearer, the sky seemed to brighten up, and rays of sunlight looked down upon their destination.<br/>
The tourney looked expensive, even from the outside. It made Brandon question how a mid-ranking lord who owned the most expensive castle to upkeep in the realm could afford a grand tourney, off of the back of a harsh and quite frankly unproductive winter. There was surely a greater player acting as a benefactor to this event, and Brandon had his suspicions.<br/>
“And King Harren learned that thick walls and high towers are small use against dragons. For dragons fly.” Eddard mocked. Brandon turned to his brother. He was wearing a similar jerkin to him, but with a lighter cloak trailing behind him. He had a smile on his long face, whilst his shoulder length brown hair blew in the wind. He had seemed to grow stubble on the road.<br/>
“One of Old nan’s tales. You know they say that Harrenhal is cursed?” Brandon spoke back to his brother.<br/>
“The only curse this place has is poor infrastructure. Its falling to pieces. Maybe it is ghosts. Believe you me, I live with the great Jon Arryn, I know a ghost when I see one.” Eddard laughed as they carried on to the portcullis.<br/>
Even the castle gate was larger than life, and the gatehouse was as large as the keep at Winterfell. The black iron spikes resembled dragons’ teeth. One of their men-at-arms raised the wolf banner of House Stark above their head. They entered the courtyard of the castle through a dense entrance. The thickness of the walls was even bigger than Brandon had first imagined.<br/>
The castle’s courtyard itself was dirt, but lined around the side with black brick. From first sight, the grand hall was in front of them, but on second look it was only the Hunter’s Hall. To see the true glory of the Hall of the Hundred Hearths they had to ride about fifty yards onwards. It was large enough to sit an entire army.<br/>
Brandon and his company got off their horses to be greeted by Lord Walter Whent, who seemed as small as a mouse exiting the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. He had stringy light hair running down to his eyebrows. His eyes themselves were a polluted blue, and he welcomed the Starks with a smile.<br/>
“The Starks of Winterfell, how wonderful to have you in attendance my lords and lady. Has Lord Rickard remained in Winterfell?” Lord Whent questioned.<br/>
“He has been in poor health and the long ride south would be sure to make his condition worse, my lord. I am Brandon Stark, Lord Rickards eldest son. May I also present to you my noble brothers Eddard and Benjen and my beautiful sister Lyanna.” There must always be a Stark in Winterfell his father had told him before he left.<br/>
Eddard stood proud next to Brandon, and Benjen next to him; his sharp face and blue-green eyes beaming at Lord Whent. Lyanna slowly descended from her horse, dressed in a thick sheepskin gown, with a barely visible cloth tunic underneath. His sister truly was beautiful, delicately beautiful. She had a slim frame, with lengthy brown hair and grey eyes. Her pale face had grown rosy cheeks from the chilly breeze. But she certainly had ‘the wolf blood’ their father spoke so much about. The blood of the First Men and the ancient Kings in The North. The Frey boys stood near the back, almost cowering in the shadow of the great towers.</p><p>“Noble lords and fair lady, I welcome you to Harrenhal. Many lords and ladies are here already, and the grand feast will take place in this very hall tonight.” Lord Whent opened the colossal wooden doors to reveal the Hall of a Hundred Hearths.<br/>
They stepped into the hall, and to their surprise there was only about thirty-five hearths, but each one was larger than any hearth Brandon had ever seen. The hall was built for giants, and would easily hold the five hundred or so people that would be feasting tonight. The floors were smooth slate and elevated above were two galleries overlooking the hall.<br/>
“My lord,” Brandon asked, “is there a godswood?” Godswoods were few and far between when one leaves The North.<br/>
“We have one of the largest in the realm, one to rival Winterfell even. You may pray in eternal peace.” Lord Whent then pointed the Starks to their chambers and left. They appeared to be in the Kingspyre chambers which was normally reserved to the castellan.<br/>
After the long walk up the winding staircase, they found their chambers. Each Stark had their own individual room but they were all on the same level. Brandon entered to find a sizeable curtained bed and a fire already lit behind an iron grate. There was a small window in his quarters of which he looked out of. He saw the Widow’s Tower easily enough, and he worked out the room was around halfway up. He spied the bathhouse, and the bear pit. But he could not see beyond the walls. As he took off his travelling clothes and rested his blade against the hearth; the tower shaking in the wind, and the window whistling.<br/>
The Wild Wolf left wearing a brown doublet, slightly lighter than the shade of his hair. The walk to the godswood was a long one, and it was hidden behind another large wall, albeit shorter and thinner than the others. He worked out that the area backed onto the God’s Eye.<br/>
It was way over twenty acres. There was a long stream running through the entirety and into the lake beyond the walls. As Brandon trekked through the enclosed space, he saw oaks, pines and sentinels. It was dark and primal and the turning branches grew together in groups above Brandon’s head. The smell of fresh leaves and dew was still fresh, and the air he breathed was crisp and cold. It did feel like a godswood, pure and free, but there was something off about it. He followed the stream to find the weirwood tree. The bark was as white as a fresh winter blanket and the leaves as red as dragon fire. But still, Brandon felt uneasy approaching it. It seemed full with hatred, and the face had a twisted mouth and deep, flaring eyes. He noticed the thirteen marks carved into the bark as he traced his fingers along the edge. The heir to Winterfell found a spot below the thickest cluster of red leaves and rested upon a rock. He sat with his thoughts a while, brooding ominously. But mostly he just relaxed.<br/>
“Gods save us. Whatever is being created in this godforsaken place, save us.” The words nestled off the tongue of Brandon and into the presence of the weirwood. He hoped they would answer his prayers. The trees seemed to shudder as he spoke.<br/>
The ghosts of Harrenhal even curse a sacred place, he noted.</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Howland</h2></a>
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    <p>The bleak castle of Harrenhal was filled to the rafters. The crowd was formidably jovial, with people of all shapes and sizes collected together. He overheard many a conversation, but the sounds of voices mixed together to create a white noise of sorts. Howland noted the drinking festivities had already begun, and the dew of alcohol filled the air. A rainbow of banners and sigils reached high, making them seem as if the sky had been corrupted by coloured dye. The crannogman stumbled through the dense forest of people, trying hard to avoid trailing legs or flailing arms. He was considerably smaller than most people there, and he assumed they had mistaken him for a child.<br/>Tents were set up around the thick outer walls, cuddled around the main gatehouse, leaving a small room through the middle for entrance into the castle, tight together like a dying couple. These temporary houses were mainly for the lords of lesser stature, bannermen of greater lords, like his own house. Despite searching for some time, there had been no tent set up for House Reed. Howland knew it was a mistake to ride down, his house was not greatly respected; he had preferred to spend his time in the south living on the Isle of Faces. There was a queer calm there, a sense of primality. The trees were fresh and untouched, and the ground was soft. But the ground at Harrenhal was charred and corrupted. It was an unnatural place, despite the festivities. <br/>He had ridden to the melted fortress alone. The journey was not far, but on the way, he had noticed many lords and ladies travelling among convoys. Howland was even sure he had noticed the royal caravan, the banner of the three headed dragon rising high above the carriage of King Aerys. The dragon was riding to Harrenhal once more.<br/> But, to his knowledge, the Targaryens had not arrived yet. Howland managed to pass the huge crowd, and walked into a fairly open space, his beige hair flicking in the newly appearing breeze. Howland saw the tourney grounds, the grand pavilion and the jousting ranks. He had considered entering perhaps the melee, but he knew deep down his size would be a major disadvantage. The greatest knights in the realm would be in attendance, he was a mere crannogman. <br/>Howland reached the path that ran through the middle of the camp, nearly getting swept off his feet by a company of horses. They bore the rose sigil of House Tyrell. Truly everyone important gathers under one roof. After the roses had entered Harrenhal, he followed the roads curvature to the tourney grounds. There was a considerable amount of green space in between the pavilion and the rest of the festivities, leaving room for a horse racing track to run around the outer walls of the castle and loop back in from of the jousting ranks. He smelt the roast of meats, heard the joyous laughter and chatter of all types of people, smallfolk and great lords. The flying banners cracked in the wind and the sound of bouncing chain mail made the setting seem like a fairy tale of old. The pageantry was unlike anything the crannogman had ever seen before, and he knew he would likely not see it again. He was pleased as ever to be a part of it; perhaps the greatest coming together of noble houses in history.<br/>As he strayed further from the comfort of the crowds, the field began to conceal itself in silence, and a cold breeze drew towards him. The crannogman only bore a thin jerkin with a light surcoat, he had assumed that spring would bring warmer weather; apparently not. <br/>He began to hear footsteps. Ominous footsteps that vibrated off the ground. He had grown used to sensing movement on the Isle of Faces, so much so that he was able to sense the pace and urgency of them. Howland carried on to a stall, it was untouched but the smell of freshly carved wood filled his nose as he continued forward. He heard a deep voice.<br/>“Boy, what are you doing here?” As he turned, he noticed three people standing in front of him. They wore light armour, and had their houses embodied onto their chest plates. He noted the sigil of House Frey, House Blount and House Haigh. But these could not be lords nor heirs, perhaps mere squires. Nevertheless, it was unwise to attack three squires at once, all of which were higher in stature and pure weight than the small crannogman.<br/>“I am here for the tourney, I am Howl…” He was cut off.<br/>“Peasants should not be here, especially in the presence of high lords. We serve great houses, unlike you.” The boy wearing the Blount sigil spat on the floor. He knew peasants were allowed, but they were troublemakers.<br/>“I am not a peasant; I can assure you that. I am not a boy either I am a man grown.” Howland was two and twenty, but he did not look his age.<br/>“Either you are the dwarf of Casterly Rock, or you are a liar.” Tywin Lannister’s son was usually the butt of the joke, but this was no joke, Howland feared.<br/>“I am causing you no harm; I can assure you. Let me be and leave.” Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a pitchfork resting against the stall. He judged his options quickly before the squires could make a move. The squire to House Haigh was the smallest, followed by the Frey. Without second though, he grabbed the pitchfork and rammed it into the chest of the Haigh squire. The weapon barely reached him, but enough to knock him back. Before Howland could recuperate his thoughts, the Frey boy was on him. He had no weapon but a blunt dirk which he stabbed Howland in the side with. It was painful, but luckily drew no blood. The crannogman managed to jerk the squire off of him, and rolled to his side to grab the pitchfork once more. He tried to swing it upwards, but as he pulled, the Blount squire stood on the end. His arm strength was not enough to grab the weapon and hie felt an iron fist ram into his stomach. He lurched to the side in pain, already stunned to the floor. He was awaiting another hit until he heard some screaming. It was a girl’s cry, though. He opened his eyes to see Lyanna Stark, beautiful and bold, swinging a blunt sword towards the squires. She managed to hit the Frey over the head with the side of the blad, and his scull began to ring. The Haigh squire attempted to tackle her to the ground, but she dodged and hit him over the back with her sword. She was both gorgeous and gracious, almost flying with her weapon. He knew the Starks were famed for their wolf blood, but she was a real she-wolf. Bu the time the squires retired and ran back, Howland was in awe of Lady Starks rescue. He had not seen skills with a sword like it, especially from a girl. <br/>“My lady… how, why?” Howland finally plucked up the courage to speak, and the words seemed to be stuck.<br/>“You are Howland Reed. I saw you in the crowd. I was walking around, enjoying time away from my brothers and breathing in the real atmosphere. Until I recognised you from the time you came to Winterfell. That must have been years ago now, but you look the same. You wandering alone and approached by those cowards. You look a lot like your father, you know. Anyway, defending the honour of our bannermen is what my father taught me, and it needed to be done.” She was out of breath as she spoke, but she articulated words so well, and had a soft, calming voice.<br/>“I remember you. I have no skill with a weapon, nor much courage I’m afraid. Not such with conversing with others either, it appears.” He shuddered.<br/>“You look to have taken a nasty wound there.” She pointed at a rip in his surcoat and jerkin, his side dark blue, “I shall take you to my quarters. Unless, you have some?”<br/>“No, I do not. I think I am an unexpected guest. Unwanted to, it seems. But my lady, you need not care for me. I am used to camping under the cover of the stars.” He could not quite believe he had been invited to Lady Starks quarters.<br/>“Fear not, my brothers will welcome you with open arms. We are being held in the Kingspyre Tower.” She pointed to one of Harren the Black’s mighty towers, misshaped and scolded. <br/>The walk to the tower was long, they had to force their way through a bustling crowd, a crowd even larger than it had been when Howland was pasing through. The great feast of opening night was to take place, a thousand nobles were to be seated in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths, all mingling, eating and drinking together. It was said to be the greatest meeting of the great powers in centuries; millenniums, perhaps. Howland was going to be a part of this historic meeting.<br/>The winding steps of the Kingspyre Tower seemed to drag on, until they reached the chambers of the Starks. The level their chambers were on were said to be merely halfway up. The room itself was large, and seated two beds, Lyanna and her brother Benjen. They both had wooden frames and silk curtains, but the roof was uneven and the walls were black and jagged. <br/>“Who is this, Lyanna?” Benjen Stark looked similar to Brandon, as he had last recalled.<br/>“This is Howland Reed; he is the son of one of father’s bannermen. He had been given no accommodation, so I invited him here with us.” Lyanna turned to the crannogman and warmly smiled. <br/>It took a while for the three to dress themselves. Benjen was a boy of fourteen, but he offered a doublet to Howland and usurpingly, it fitted. The other two donned clothing with the wolf of House Stark, and thick pelts worn as cloaks. They exited the room to find the two others, Brandon and Eddard. The older brother wore a brilliant black jerkin, juxtaposed by the white fabric wolf. His cloak was bear pelt and still had the claws. His brother wore a dark brown doublet. <br/>“Howland Reed, I remember you from when your father came to visit Winterfell. What are you doing with my brother and sister?” Brandon asked, but in a polite tone; however, Howland was still slightly on edge speaking to the heir of Winterfell.<br/>“I met your sister after I was attacked at the tourney grounds. She invited me in, as I was given no such accommodation.”<br/>“Aren’t you crannogmen used to living in the swamps?” Eddard jested. His hair was fairer than his older brothers, and his face more crowded.<br/>“Quiet, Ned. Howland is a good lad.” Brandon defended him, “Will you join us at the feast? You may have a seat at our table.”<br/>So he followed the Starks down to the Hall of the Hundred Hearths. They entered from the front door, magnificently craved into the blackness if the hall. Immediately he was overwhelmed by the smoke arising from the open fires, pigs and sheep being roasted over them. Each hearth was lit in a long line either side of the hall, although there were nowhere near one hundred. The company stopped before they entered, as it was near full. Brightly fashioned dresses, gowns and doublets of greens, reds and yellows of every shade danced among the fires and laughter. Two enormously long benches stretched from one end of the hall to the other, with only the fires in between them. All kinds of lords and ladies danced to the hundreds of tunes being played by different bards with lutes, harps and flutes. Howland noticed the main northern houses there, Hornwoods, Dustins, Manderlys and Mormonts, but that merely scratched the service. He had already seen a pack of Tyrells of Highgarden riding in with the Redwynes of the Arbour and the Tarly’s of Hornhill. He had noted the appearance of Rhaegar Targaryen in a night black and blood ruby doublet conversing with a man with fiery red hair and a knight of the Kingsguard. He also saw King Aerys upon a lifted chair, towering over the rest of the hall. Brandon Stark guided them to a seat that was in a more open space towards the back of the hall. There was some space between them and the next table. <br/>“Ale! I shall fetch it. Howland, accompany me.” Eddard beckoned over to him. Although they had only just sat, the Starks were already itching for ale; even Lyanna and young Benjen.<br/>He and Eddard passed what seemed to be a member of the Night’s Watch looking for recruits, and a Pentoshi mummer. The Stark pointed out the table with huge kegs of ale, with two men sat by it. One was an enormous man, with broad shoulders and a slender frame. He had short mud brown hair and bore a yellow jerkin. Next to him was a slightly smaller man who appeared to be a knight. The larger man appeared to acknowledge their presence and called over to Eddard.<br/>“Damn me, Ned. You left The Eyrie early only to turn up to the feast late!” The man let out a bellowing laugh and slapped his hand on his knee.<br/>“Already drunk I see, Robert. Who is your friend?” Robert Baratheon, it must have been. Lyanna was telling him about her brothers wardship with Jon Arryn in The Eyrie. <br/>“This is Ser Richard Lonmouth, my wine drinking friend. I lost Jon. This sod bet me that I would not be able to handle three cups of mine in three minutes… oh how wrong he was. What’s worse is he now owes me seven gold dragons.” Robert Baratheon let out another bellow as Ser Richard stared ominously. Eddard went to pick up a keg of ale, and handed some cups to Howland.<br/>“As much as I adore your company, Robert, I must get back to my brother.” Eddard began slowly pacing backwards, and Howland followed.<br/>“Aye. I shall join you later. How is my lovely Lyanna?” Robert asked.<br/>“She is well, but it is better if she does not see you in your current state. You have a wine stain on your collar.” The two men disappeared into the fog of the crowd. They managed to locate the Starks once again, and Howland distributed the cups to each sibling. Eddard opened the keg and poured. The crannogman took a small sip, and the ale was bitter. As the time passed by, the Starks began drinking more heavily and their minds became more intoxicated. Howland happily joined in with them, the ale mitigated the noise and the general buzz of the feast. <br/>By the time Howland had finished his second cup, he noticed the three squires who attacked him earlier on that day. They seemed roughed up, but more or less wearing the same attire they were when Lyanna had defeated them. Deep down he was hoping that she did not notice them, in fear of the consequences; but as he looked over his shoulder for a third time, her eyes caught them.<br/>“Howland, look. Those are the squires that attacked you!” She seemed a little worked up.<br/>“They are, but they will not hurt me any longer, as long as you are around to protect me.” He giggled.<br/>“I left my sword in my chambers, but if you would like me to defend your honour on your behalf, it would be my duty.” Brandon Stark although jesting and laughing for most of the evening suddenly became gravely serious.<br/>“Why does the crannogman challenge the squires to a joust tomorrow? Individually this time.” Howland felt uneasy about the second son of Rickard Stark, but perhaps he liked him.<br/>“I can lend you a horse; and a sword and armour if you need it?” Benjen spoke up.<br/>“I can assure you Lord Stark that I have no combat skills.” Howland had never been a fan of fighting, in his childhood he preferred to go hunting in the swamps around Greywater Watch.<br/>“Skill with a lance is only a third of jousting. It’s mainly determined by skill with a mount.” Brandon interrupted.<br/>“Growing up in a swamp there is little need for a horse, but the idea was kind, my lord.” All of a sudden, the music from the bards stopped and Lord Whent stood at the front of the hall, grabbing the attention from all of the attendees. He wore a magnificent light green jerkin, with a golden necklace shaped as a bat. He waited for the murmurs to quieten, and all listened.  <br/>“My friends, family, great noble lords and ladies, I welcome you to the magnificent castle of Harrenhal. I am sure you are aware of this fortresses’ past, but today we create a new future. We begin with a grand night of feasting and drinking, followed by a week of jousting, archery, sword combat and more drinking and feasting!” The crowd let out a roar, and those who held a drink lifted their cups in the air, “We are honoured to house His Grace, King Aerys Targaryen second of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men. We are honoured to hold the greatest houses in the realm. Tonight, we celebrate. Now… for the dance!” The music began playing again, but it centred around a single band; the music slowed and became solemnly serious. Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell were the first to take to the centre stage, closely followed by Mace Tyrell and Alerie Hightower. Before long, it seemed all the couples in the Seven Kingdoms were among those taking part. Robert Baratheon came to Lyanna to offer a dance, to which she gracefully accepted. Hoster Tully came to Brandon with his daughter Catelyn to offer a dance, and as he left, he whispered in Eddard’s ear “remember what we’re here for”. Before long, it was just Howland, Eddard and Benjen left at their table.<br/>“You see that girl there?” Eddard pointed at a Dornish women in a royal blue dress, with sapphire a curtail, dancing with Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard, “My father wishes for me to introduce myself. Her name is Ashara Dayne, brother of the Sword of the Morning. Gods she is pretty, but what can I do?”<br/>“If I may, Lord Stark. Simply ask her. If you father knows of her, I am sure she is aware of you. You will honour her.” Eddard clenched his fist.<br/>“You may be right, swamp man. I will go.” In his lightly drunken state, Eddard sipped some more ale and plucked up the courage to ask Lady Dayne. It seemed to be a success, as they began dancing quite vigorously, nearly knocking Oberyn Martell off of the floor. Even when Lyanna and Brandon returned to the table and the song seemed to die out, Eddard and Ashara carried on. <br/>“We shall both be married soon, you and I.” Brandon turned to Lyanna.<br/>“My Robert is a noble warrior, and a lovely man at that.” She smiled, and her warm cheeks grew even rosier.<br/>“And a drunk.” Brandon stated, bluntly, “where is Ned?” <br/>He had disappeared, and so had Ashara. The dance floor had cleared, as had much of the hall as it seemed to be well beyond midnight. As Brandon began observing the room, he noticed the table opposite was taken by the Dragonknight, Rhaegar Targaryen. He was lightly strumming his harp, humming a near perfectly pitched tune. He looked at Lyanna longingly, and leaned forwards, his indigo eyes growing.<br/>“Do you have a request, my lady?” His silver hair was shining off of the light the hearth was giving off, the flames were bouncing off the hair of the dragon.<br/>“Do you know ‘seasons of my love’, my prince?” She blushed, more than she had when Robert requested a dance. Howland felt strangely awkward between the two, like a forcefield had developed around them. </p><p>“I loved a maid as fair as summer<br/>With sunlight in her hair<br/>I loved a maid as red as autumn<br/>With sunset in her hair<br/>I loved a maid as white as winter<br/>With moonglow in her hair<br/>I loved a maid as sweet as spring<br/>With flowers in her hair.”</p><p> </p>
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